


must've missed that in the transcript

by atavists



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, True Crime, my first time posting on ao3 i'm sorry lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-09-29 22:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atavists/pseuds/atavists
Summary: Where a new agent enters the Behavioural Science unit, and Bill finds her more fascinating than any of the work they've done so far.





	1. Chapter 1

I. 

There’d been an influx of people Bill had never seen before loitering around in the canteen that morning. It wasn’t difficult to spot the collective anxiousness hanging between them; the way they rubbed their palms on their trousers before shaking hands, their darting eyes, their stiff suits fresh from the dry cleaners. Bill hoped he hadn’t been such a giveaway as a new recruit. How times had changed - now he felt a part of the furniture. Would’ve been nice to have not been thrown in the basement with the rest of the storage, though. 

It seemed with the perceived major success of Gunn using the FBI to aid the Atlanta case he’d been allowed to upsize. There had been no interviews for behavioural science, though. They’d shot themselves in the foot hiring Gregg, someone who Bill figured was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. There seemed to be a lot of new faces around, but Bill didn’t know if that was just Gunn ramping up the interview pool, or because this was the first time he’d left his office in a number of days. 

When he and Holden had returned from Atlanta nothing had slowed down. The backlog of interviews had piled up, and BTK was still a case they’d barely even had time to get a glimpse at. To Wendy’s credit she’d kept things going as best she could, but Bill hated how disorganised things became when he was away for more than a few days at a time. Behavioural Science was still his ship to steer, even if it had grown into a monster with the way Gunn and Holden wanted to charge ahead with it. 

It was six months after the closing of the Atlanta case and Bill was throwing himself into his work like he’d never done before. It pained him that there was no longer Nancy and Brian to devote his attention to when he came home from the office. He missed getting out the car and seeing the lights on in the window, being able to reheat his dinner. He missed ruffling his son’s hair even if he got no reaction, and he missed sleeping beside someone whom he’d confided in for so long. The only thing he was grateful for was to see the back of the divorce. Picking Brian up at the weekend and greeting a morose Nancy was the strangest feeling, as if the stitches were being plucked out one by one all over again. His work served to distract him and his new apartment in Woodbridge was plain enough so that nothing much reminded him of family life. He wondered how it had all fallen apart; he’d never been the guy to become so consumed by his work that everything else was an afterthought. Spending time with Holden was definitely rubbing off on him.

Speaking of Holden, that boy was back to his steadfast ways. Shaky moments had become less and less of an occurrence, and since that day by the river when they’d found Nathaniel Cater’s body and Bill had been perhaps a bit too harsh, they’d forgiven one another without actually using the correct words. Bill was trying. That was why he’d followed Holden up to the cafeteria when he’d said he was going to get lunch; they’d been discussing potential future interviewees, all favouring the idea of Ted Bundy. Bill could already see the gleam in Holden’s eye.

“I think Bundy will almost seem an anomaly to what we’ve found before,” Holden declared as he picked out a green apple to set down on his tray. “Not in the sense that he’s charismatic, but more so that he had the ability to hold mildly-successful relationships. Romantic ones with women.” 

“Credit to him,” Bill remarked, holding his freshly brewed coffee by the rim. “But we know his father was absent and his relationship with his mother was complicated, to say the least.” 

Holden nodded. “Textbook.”

They sat, Holden wanting to follow his routine of breaking up his day with the lunch break. Bill lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat. They were approaching the hottest summer months now, July bringing a wave of insufferable humidity that made Bill sweat whether he was wearing short-sleeved shirts or not. That was one thing he could be thankful for in the basement - being underground with no windows soothed the stickiness. 

The times his partner was quiet was never lost on Bill. There was no longer an excitable analyses of a sick mind filling the space between them, and as Bill followed Holden’s wandering gaze, he discovered what had turned his attention.

Holden was staring at a woman. She’d just entered the canteen, looking alone and a little bit lost as she wrung her hands and bit her lip. An interviewee, Bill figured. Well, he could see why she’d caught Holden’s eye. She couldn’t be older than thirty, but she certainly wasn’t baby-faced. The woman was striking - hollowed cheeks, a high jaw on her slender neck, full, brown eyebrows that ran from the centre of her forehead to the outside edge of her wide eyes, and a thick set of lips that gave her a constant pout. Her dark hair was tied at the nape of her neck, a middle-parting running from the peak of her forehead to the crown. There was the same look of learnedness running through her expression that Wendy had; a knowledge that she was maybe somewhat out of place, but a determinedness to deliver more than setting and circumstance would expect from her. 

Bill had been staring, and a niggling guilt sat in his stomach. Thankfully, he’d been the one to catch Holden in the act first. 

“Holden,” he called. Holden’s gormless gaze wasn’t diverted; this wasn’t like him, and it was amusing. “Holden. You’re staring.”

“Shh.” Holden sat straighter, repositioning his fork in his hand. “She’s looking back at me.” 

Bill couldn’t resist sneering as he took a few more drags of his cigarette. He shook his head at Holden’s fixation, but curiosity soon became the better of him too. He moved slowly, intending to discreetly aim a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, the woman was looking back at them, but Bill wasn’t sure it was Holden’s stare she was returning. Bill’s eyes met hers and he was stunned for a moment, gripped by the certainty that she was looking at him. Hell, he was clueless as to why. He wondered if he’d ever seen her before, but he knew he hadn’t. 

He was the one to turn away. As nonchalantly as he could he finished off his cigarette, chuckling to himself again at Holden’s open-mouth. But he was no better, finding himself taking glimpses from the corner of his eye to see if he could catch sight of her. She got a coffee, and Bill thought the eye contact she’d made a few moments ago had been so arresting that she might even have the gall to approach their table. His assumption was wrong, however, as she promptly left the canteen. There was something strangely intriguing about what had just happened, but it was one of those things, inexplicable in so many ways. It was random eye-contact, nothing more. Despite that, there was very little that caught Holden’s attention like that. Bill found it incredible how a certain special look from his partner was reserved strictly for attractive women and serial killers. 

“Well, there’s a little something for you to think about at lunchtime rather than ponder over our subjects, Holden.”

“That’s if she passes her interview,” he retorted. 

II. 

There was a knock on the door of Bill’s office. A moment passed before Gregg poked his head through the gap, his beady eyes searching to meet Bill’s behind his reading glasses.

“Gunn called Wendy,” Gregg said. “Wants to see you both in his office.” 

Wendy was waiting for Bill by the elevator. He raised his arms from his sides as he approached her. “What’s this about?” 

“I don’t know,” she replied, a hint of a smile breezing across her lips. She’d been in a good mood lately; Holden had guessed in confidence with Bill that she was sleeping with someone new. “Gunn didn’t sound particularly dissenting. Holden wasn’t asked for, though.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” 

The summer heat hit them as soon as the elevator doors slid open upstairs. Bill followed behind Wendy as they made their way to Gunn’s office, the Behavioural Science creatures finally emerging from their cave. As always the Assistant Director’s door was already open, but for once he wasn’t alone. A wave of deja vu washed over Bill as he and Wendy entered, taking it upon himself to close the door behind them. 

There was a fourth person in the room. She’d been sat down, but she’d risen when they’d entered. Bill had seen the woman before - it had been last week in the canteen. That was it, she’d caught Holden’s eye. She’d admittedly caught Bill’s too. Christ, Holden hadn’t approached her and attempted to impress her with the transcript of their Manson interview, had he?

“Wendy, Bill,” Gunn greeted, perching against the front of his desk with folded arms. “How’re things going downstairs?”

“Cooler than up here, sir,” Wendy quipped. She was definitely sleeping with someone. 

“I’d like for you both to meet Special Agent Diana Owen,” Gunn said, motioning to the woman. “I’m sure you’re aware we’ve been conducting some interviews in the recent weeks, expanding our workforce. Diana will be joining you in the Behavioural Science unit.”

Bill frowned, an instinctive response. It hadn’t been discussed, but he supposed it couldn’t be a bad thing. In theory, more staff should mean he would have less to do. But there was always more, always another stack of papers on his desk. 

“Diana, this is Doctor Wendy Carr, and Special Agent Tench.” 

“Bill,” he clarified, outstretching his arm. He took her hand, returning a smile. Yeah, she looked smart. Like Wendy, she would’t miss a trick. Bill should’ve been worried watching the two women also exchange a firm handshake. 

Being closer now than he’d been the first time he’d seen her, she looked even younger. Bill had thought he was good with ages, but he suspected she could be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-two. The navy pantsuit she wore with a white blouse beneath succeeded in the impression she was hoping to convey, elevating her maturity. Gunn had introduced her as a Special Agent - he’d never seen her around before. 

“Diana did her training here at Quantico in ’76, and has since completed a Masters in psychology at Berkeley. She’s worked undercover for us in Shirley Chisholm’s office, and with the Panthers in San Francisco.” 

What a way to impress on your first day at the office. Gunn said nothing more, however, smiling customarily at Wendy instead. 

“Wendy, perhaps you could take Diana down, show her where she’ll be working?”

Bill thought he may as well have just said, ‘go on Wendy, clear the females out of the office so the men can talk shop’. Wendy translated it as this too, consigning herself to a curt nod. Bill watched from the corner of his eye as Diana inhaled a sharp breath, hot on Wendy’s heels as they left and headed back to the basement. 

Gunn circled back around his desk, taking his seat with a content sigh. “You didn’t think I’d forget about you downstairs, did you Bill?” 

“No. But forgive me sir; what’s her role to be in our department?” Bill suddenly found himself crossing his fingers behind his back, hoping Gregg had decided to flee. 

“I intend that Diana will bridge the gap between what your current interns and admins do, and what the team of yourself, Holden, Doctor Carr, and Agent Smith do. You need a supporting member with specialisms.” From Gunn’s narrowed eyes, Bill had assumed his boss had read his blank expression. “Diana will function somewhere between assistant - arranging your flights, hotels, diaries - as well as elevating you to new places. You’re growing rapidly as a department, and I’m very glad that you are. Diana will have the responsibility of curating your growth while yourself and Holden continue the practical work you’ve been doing - the interviews, the real-life practice.” 

“For someone with a Masters in psychology and the title of Special Agent, is that perhaps not a little below her pay-grade, sir?” 

Gunn recognised Bill hadn’t meant to sound so critical. “This was never a particular role we advertised for Bill, otherwise you would have known. Diana didn’t receive the role that she had applied for, but she was suggested to me because of her clear interest in the work you’ve been doing.”

“Really? How?”

“Your methods of profiling and interviewing are getting attention. You’re interviewing some of the most notorious criminals out there. Soon I imagine yourself, or even Holden, will be approached for interviews, and we want that publicity for the department.” Bill recoiled slightly at the suggestion of Holden speaking to the Washington Post - ‘eight ripe cunts’ circled around his mind. “Part of Diana’s job will be press relations, managing your external image. What I feel, Bill, is that I have an incredible team down there with you at the head. I believe you need strings, though, to pull it all together.”

That made enough sense. “Yes, sir.”

“I hope she’ll be pertinent to your work. As I said, she has a Masters in psychology, a particular focus on criminology. She’s worked with the Bureau in California in between her studies, well-recommended. Here’s her resume.”

Bill took the file that Gunn held out to him over his desk. “Thank you, sir.”

“She’s to report directly to yourself and to Doctor Carr. I see that same glimmer in her that Holden has,” Gunn mused, wiggling his fingers in the air as if he’d discovered another protege. “Only with a copious amount more sensibility.” 

Bill seriously hoped Gunn was right, for his own sake, and for everyone else’s. 

When he returned downstairs he noticed Holden had left his desk in the office at the other end of the basement corridor. Bill wasn’t sure why Holden had remained in that dark room, especially since he and Wendy had vacated their initial offices in favour of the bigger, brighter ones Gunn had suggested to them. Leaving Gregg in there on his own would be a step too far, he supposed. 

Holden was staking out Wendy and Special Agent Owen like a shark circling a tourist who’d fallen into the sea. She’d been given a desk not far away from the door of Bill’s office, allowing Wendy to reallocate that intern she didn’t like to the corner of the room. 

Once he was satisfied with making his presence known without actually formally introducing himself, Holden appeared at Bill’s side. “We didn’t interview her.”

“No, but Gunn did,” Bill declared. He’d already assumed Holden’s attempt at wooing her would be over the second he’d realised they had to work together. “Play nice.”

“Oh, I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

III.

Diana sensed that the key to integrating herself to the Behavioural Science unit was likely to rest more on the relationships she made rather than the work she produced. Nevertheless, she’d pushed nothing aside; she was already up to her eyeballs in organising the department head’s diaries. Wendy and Bill had turned out to be very busy people. It had only been a week since Assistant Director Gunn had thrown Diana in at the deep end, but the team had seemed to appreciate someone keeping things immediately up to date. Holden’s diary was another matter in the case that it was practically non-existent. He’d grumbled something about having his own system, but like a scolding mother, Wendy had insisted that he needed one if he wanted to be taken seriously.

Wendy and Bill certainly kept to themselves, office doors shut, and they typically only spoke when it was warranted. To Diana’s luck, the department’s secretary could talk all day. Greer, a curvy girl a few years over the thirty mark who wore rimmed spectacles and a lot of tweed, had claimed she wasn’t a busybody, but she apparently saw no harm in filling Diana in on the entire department’s dirty laundry. Diana was wary of listening to gossip, but she couldn’t stop Greer discreetly feeding her information each time another file was placed on her desk.

Doctor Carr wasn’t married and she lived alone in a swank apartment uptown. She had a soft spot for Holden, or at least Greer thought so, because no one else seemed to be able to put up with him. Tench was perhaps an exception, but they rarely spent time together unless they were forced to. Greer claimed Wendy had known Bill for some time, although it was in a strictly business-related manner. Diana liked Wendy a lot, and she felt the respect was mutual. Intellectual, headstrong, and commanding - Diana sensed she was really what had kept Behavioural Science’s head above water in the first year of this research project.

Holden had turned thirty a matter of months ago, making him a year older than Diana, and he really was the spark that Gunn had painted him to be. Greer had been working in the department for nine months, relegated down to the basement after going on maternity leave with her second child. She’d been at the main reception before that, so knew practically everyone who walked in and out of Quantico. She’d said that even though Holden had always been a little cold, and maybe more than a little blunt, he’d closed even further in on himself with the more work they did. It’d been put down by Greer as a result of a breakup with a girlfriend. Diana hadn’t missed how often Holden’s gaze had been directed at her, but his attention had waned over the course of a week. Work relationships were a big no, and Diana hoped Holden was vigilant enough to acknowledge that.

Bill had started the Behavioural Science unit and was seeing through the project they were working on now. He was a humorous man with a lot of good ideas, but he rarely smiled. The only time Diana had been curious enough to ask Greer anything personal about her new co-workers was when she’d realised Bill didn’t wear a wedding band. Something else she’d noticed was the definite line on the fourth finger of his left hand where the skin was paler than the rest surrounding it.

“Does Bill have a family?” she’d asked. It had been an innocent enough question.

“Bill’s just been through a pretty tough divorce,” Greer had huffed, feigning sympathy when all she really wanted to do was play the informant to Diana. “He’d been married to his wife for just over twenty-five years. Nancy. A nice woman, but could be a bit curt if I ever saw her at any of the work do’s. They wanted a child for a long time. Couldn’t have one, so they adopted a boy. I forget his name, but he was the opposite of Bill, very quiet, dark-haired, faraway look on his face. Anyhow, Bill was away for quite some time working on the case in Atlanta. Their son really struggled at school and Nancy wanted to move, but Bill wanted to hold off until the case was finished. Well, she didn’t want to wait, and she moved out with their son and they couldn’t reconcile. Brian - that’s their son’s name. Bill seems to see him every week or so. It’s all definitely got him down. He’s not the same man he was before.”

The answer left Diana feeling guilty. She didn’t say anything in response, instead just nodding as she busied herself with the transcripts of previous interviews. She’d asked Wendy if it would be alright for her to read them, to truly get a sense of how the research was being conducted and what they were looking for. The pair of them spoke for a good few hours about the psychology of the criminals, and how it translated in the interviews. How to tell if they were bluffing, and how to empathise without forgetting the gulf between yourself and them. That was the work Diana wanted to do, _not_ sort diaries. But it’d do for now, if it was only to be around what was happening.

She found herself in and out of Bill’s office often, and today was no exception. It was usually things as tedious as ferrying in and out research and transcripts, communicating messages from different departments, or taking him coffee, but only when she offered. Bill never asked out of politeness, but he always agreed to one. Gregg, on the other hand, seemed to think Diana was their lackey. She was expecting to be asked about fetching his suit from the dry cleaners any day now. There was interns for that shit, but Diana got the sense the main Behavioural Science team could trust her slightly more despite her recent introduction, that they were on the same level - in title, at least. 

Diana rapped the knuckles of her spare hand against the door of Bill’s office, and his familiar low voice called out to invite her in. She pushed her way forward, taking care so as to not spill the entire contents of the files that she was cradling in her arms. Bill didn’t look up as she entered, his attention set firmly on the papers he’d been poring over instead. He had his reading glasses on, his broad shoulders hunched over his desk. 

“This is everything repro had for clippings on recent convicted offenders in and around Wichita,” she announced, setting the research down on the couch on the far side of the office. “They said they could go pre-1960 but it’d mean double the amount of files.”

“I need to look at those first,” he replied. She took that as cue to leave - he’d been fixated on those letters for a while, and he didn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon. This BTK killer had got a grip on Bill; Wendy mentioned in passing that he’d informally interviewed the only supposed surviving victim early last year. “Diana - those files in the corner need returning upstairs, if you’d ask one of the interns,” he added, probably noticing she was about to split.

She nodded at him, meeting his eyes in the process. His expression had changed since he’d looked up from the letters. There was a look on his face that Diana could only describe as wistful, but she couldn’t place why. He let her pick up the files without saying anything more, instead just releasing one of those small sighs that she’d already grown accustomed to. Diana couldn’t deny the magnetism of the man - his personality, his intelligence. His handsome looks. 

Bill had an arrestingly square jaw, emphasised by a sharp crewcut style of his silvering hair. Diana noticed that when he walked he had a swagger to his stride, his own ingenious way of presenting his confidence. He gave off the impression that he might’ve been in the military - it was the discipline to the way he moved, how assertive and direct he was. She imagined that worked well for him when conducting interviews, came naturally. Another thing that he was probably blessed for was his height, six foot two, and his barrel-chest, muscular and rounded.

Jesus Christ, she needed to stop. This was her boss, and not to mention, he was probably at least fifteen years older than her. She thought she’d passed the lusting-over-authoritative-older-men-phase at college.

But he looked so pained as his wide arms hung over his desk, his eyes searching for something in the letters that he’d already passed over a thousand times but hadn’t yet deciphered. Admittedly, Diana had had her own thoughts on these letters. It was within her jurisdiction to at least put her thoughts out there, wasn’t it?

She paused, lingering by his desk for just long enough to talk herself into making the suggestion. She had nothing to lose. Besides, Bill truly didn’t seem the type to dismiss anything she had to say.

“Have you thought about looking directly at the language in the letters?” she asked.

Bill glanced up, his cool blue eyes narrowing beneath his brows. “You mean the attitude of his writing?”

She might’ve felt caught under his gaze but she forced herself to loosen up slightly, lowering the files she’d been holding against her chest to settle on her waist. “That, but I’d also be questioning other things too,” she nodded. “For example, what’s the structure he uses? Is it similar to a letter you might send to someone you know, or is it closer to an article or dissertation, if that’s his intention with wanting to publicise his acts? Does that tell you his education, perhaps even his profession? Is he an accomplished writer, using punctuation, a variety of sentence structures, or is it poor in it’s form? And then most telling, I think, would be specific variants of spelling or certain phrases. His dialect.”

“Dialect?”

She could feel her pulse in the pit of her chest, the pace intensified by how intently Bill had been listening. She pursed her lips together and rested her thighs against the edge of his desk, internally pleading herself not to mess up now he was so captured.

“A dialect is close to an accent, only it focuses more on the way people from a specific region _use_ language. It’s like how there are certain things we all say differently because of where we’re from. There’s the idiom ‘take it with a grain of salt’. I say it that way, but I’m sure in British English it’s ‘with a _pinch_ of salt’. Of course, you’d have to take what I’m saying with a grain of salt, because it isn’t the most solid analysis possible. But it’s another perspective.”

Bill leant back in his chair, thinking intently on what Diana had said. Her eyes were drawn to the way his grey slacks tightened around his thighs. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was. No, this wasn’t the time or place - she internally smacked herself at her inappropriate thoughts, and reminded herself to physically smack herself in front of the mirror as soon as this conversation was over. 

“What you’re saying is perhaps a more informative perspective than assuming he’s not married just because of his attitude toward women,” Bill said, conveying that he was impressed through his firm tone. “How’d you think of this?”

“I was thinking about why he’s chosen to communicate via a letter and not a phone call. A letter is inarguably riskier because of forensics, though it may not seem it. He wants you to pay attention to things in the letter, and he could be a man of a nervous demeanour who struggles to coherently vocalise what he’s thinking.” She was sounding way too much like a profiler - despite her training, that wasn’t her job, and she wasn’t going to teach her boss how to do his. “That, and I share an apartment with a friend who teaches English at elementary. She brings her work home.”

The corner of Bill’s lips pulled back, a steady nod showing that he appreciated what Diana had shared. Without saying anything he reached down to one of the drawers beside his desk, rustling around to find what it was that he was looking for. A moment later he’d gathered a stapled collection of papers and reached over to hand them to Diana.

“I’ve got a spare photocopy here. Take a look, if you have time, and let me know what you think,” he suggested. He didn’t have to declare it, but they both knew the level of confidence he’d placed in her just to let her get a glimpse. Something flashed behind Bill’s eyes as if he’d remembered something, and he laughed tersely to himself at the thought before sharing it. “And if Gregg asks you to make him another coffee, tell him where to stick it, Diana.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Diana murmured, returning a smile. He looked quite something when he smiled, like the world made sense when he rediscovered the potential of his emotions. Diana thought she’d maybe stared for a second too long, but when she eventually shifted from where she’d been resting against his desk to head for the door, she noticed Bill was still staring back, too. 

IV.

It was bizarre that Holden, Bill, and Wendy had all turned up to the first event Diana had suggested to them. But they had, and Diana considered that success enough for her second week.

The event was a fundraising gala for academic research in association with a nearby college, held at one of the upmarket boutique hotels on the outskirts of the city. There’d been no question; it would be great for exposure, should make them look serious about what they were doing, and if they got lucky and played their cards right someone with cash in their pockets might even want to donate towards the project.

She’d initially asked Bill and Wendy, fully aware it would be a night that required a tolerance of ass-kissing, and the ability to do so too. Once Holden caught wind of it he’d insisted he wanted to join them, which Diana thought seemed only right considering he’d been there since the start of it all. Without explanation, however, Bill sounded skeptical. 

“Are you sure, Holden?” Bill had asked, trying to talk him down gently. “You have a tendency to go into a lot of detail that some people just can’t understand. Once they’ve had a few drinks all they want to hear about is how short Manson is.”

“I can talk about Manson,” Holden protested. “I can tell them how you called him, and I quote, ‘a fucking midget’ to his face.”

Diana didn’t know how she’d missed that in the transcript.

One thing she hadn’t missed in the transcripts, however, was Wendy’s supposed story about a past relationship she’d had with a woman. It seemed the men thought it was nothing more than quick-thinking from her (as if anyone would expect anything less), but Diana sensed the truth behind it. The friend with whom she shared her apartment, Logan, was bisexual. Living with a closeted woman made her wish that no one would have to hide who they were, but Logan’s ex-boyfriend had been abusive, and as they’d found out, severely homophobic once he learned that Logan liked women too.

That kind of attitude was nothing new; Logan was a black woman, her roots in the Deep South, and part of the reason why she’d left it all behind after college was the fear of never being accepted. Diana’s upbringing wasn’t too dissimilar. Her Chicago-based French-Moroccan family were servants of tradition, and by the age of twelve had planned out Diana’s entire life for her. They’d chosen the man she was going to marry, her mother beaming with glee at the thought of her first brood of grandchildren. Shit had hit the fan when Diana had declared she’d been accepted by Berkeley to study psychology, before promptly upping and moving to New York at eighteen. Eleven years had passed and she’d hardly seen her family since then; family events had become the only time she showed her face. She was the second-eldest of six children, which had meant a lot of marriage ceremonies in recent years. There’d been a startling number of funerals, too. Her father had been an officer in Vietnam, killed in the last year of American action. Her older brother Jon had escaped unscathed with the exception of shrapnel wounds and deeper mental scars. And last year her youngest brother, who’d just turned twenty-three, drunk himself to oblivion and became the reason why Diana found herself at another funeral. Mama was a mess, and Diana couldn’t offer any consolation. They barely even spoke; her first daughter, a year away from thirty years old, the unmarried FBI agent. Diana didn’t blame her. Raising a child for them to turn their nose up at what you’d hoped of them would surely make anyone question what it had been worth.

Diana had offered to give Wendy a lift to the gala. Turning up to events alone was a fear of Diana’s, especially when she had no anecdotes of her own about serial killers to offer. Holden had walked through the door at the same time as the two women. He’d looked Diana up and down before a grimace spread over his face. “My ex-girlfriend was wearing a jumpsuit like that the night I met her. But her’s was red, not navy,” he declared with a frown. Diana knew he’d never share something like that without intending it to send some sort of message, and this one was intended as an insult. 

She flashed a smile in his direction, and even went so far as twirling on the spot. She figured her outfit might have been commented on; all that her colleagues had seen her in so far was tailored skirts, slacks and blouses. The jumpsuit she’d chosen was still formal enough, but tighter-fitting and sleeveless to show the tan skin on her arms. Jesus Christ, she hoped the sarcasm wouldn’t be lost on him. “I knew I’d impress you somehow, Holden.”

Wendy liked that one, chuckling to herself. Unlike Diana, her style was the same out of work as it was in the office. The power-skirt, silk blouse look meant business. It also gave off a hint of ‘don’t touch me’ which Diana respected. Unfortunately the rest of the event party didn’t quite have the same impression. Forty minutes in and Wendy had been swarmed by at least a dozen men, all bargaining for her attention. She was more than skilled enough to feign them off. The disinterested look in her eyes was as clear as day, and Diana felt comfortable leaving her to her own devices.

On the other side of the hall Holden had managed to find Bill. Diana had yet to greet him as the man had been so occupied with entertaining the group which had gathered around him. As she approached she saw Holden stood behind his partner, a nostalgic kind of smile ghosting over his lips as he listened to the conversation. Although, the conversation was really more of a stand-up show.

“He was a creepy guy. Spoke softly, like Michael Jackson, but he wasn’t permanently coked up, at least.”

Diana reached the edge of the group, finding a gap between two suited shoulders through which she could see Bill. The man had style, his out-of-work wardrobe probably dictated by a desire to head to the golf-course whenever he could. He was wearing smart navy slacks and a well-fitted shirt, emphasising his top-heavy figure.

“We had one chance to get it out of this guy,” Bill exclaimed, shaking his head. “And he wasn’t letting up, was he Holden?”

Holden shook his head meekly, holding his drink close to his chest. Diana frowned - was he drinking _cordial_? Naturally, Bill was clutching an almost empty glass of brown liquid. 

“So I said to him, ‘you actually got any of these kids you’ve scouted _signed_, Wayne? You actually make any music?’ And he just sat there, whimpering a bit, and said, ‘no, not yet’. And I told him, ‘you know what I call a child talent scout who makes no music and no money, Wayne? I’d call them a fucking pedophile, that’s what I’d call them’. And I was right.”

A cheer went up, the crowd revelling in the punchline. He’d done this before, entertaining men that otherwise wouldn’t give a shit about any conversation from the second the words Behavioural Science were said. It was certainly an alternative strategy to fundraising that Diana hadn’t considered. Poor Wendy was doing honest work on the other side of the room while Bill gloated about being able to call the Atlanta child murderer a pedophile to his face. There was a pattern emerging here - Charles Manson, the ‘fucking midget’, and Wayne Williams, the ‘fucking pedophile’. Diana wondered if Bill was capable of blowing his lid, whether he often lost his cool during these interviews. She thought she might slip the idea of listening to the actual recordings to Wendy. Bill didn’t come off as an angry man, more so one that was able to curve his anger into resentment. Once she thought about it, Diana didn’t know if anger or resentment was better. 

He brushed past her once the group had calmed down, the rabble satisfied enough with his story to allow him to slip out of their grasp.

Bill dipped his head to speak only to Diana. She felt the fingertips of his free hand brush over the material covering her waist. It was so subtle, and he acted like it was a passing action, but it made her feel something stronger. “I realise that probably wasn’t the classiest way to introduce ourselves,” he told her, holding back a smile. 

“It worked,” she mused. “I think you’re good at this fundraising thing, Bill.”

“Who’d have thought the likes of Kemper and Williams would be such enigmas in these kinds of social circles when they could barely socialise in their own realities?”

Diana was genuinely struck by the hypothetical Bill had posed, but now wasn’t the time or place to discuss it. “That’s the appeal of these criminals at a place like this.”

“Yeah, and these guys just fucking eat it up,” Bill scoffed. He took a look at the glass in his large hand and proceeded to tip the last few drops down his throat. “You want a drink?”

Diana’s breath hitched in her throat. She would. She really would, especially from Bill. Jesus Christ, Bill wanted to buy her a drink. But she was at work, and her job was to make sure Holden wasn’t turning genuinely interesting interview techniques into the dullest conversation in the room. Besides, she couldn’t ignore the slight guilt she felt over thinking about Bill in other ways that were less professional than they should be, to say the least. 

“I’m taking Wendy and myself home, and I’ve already had a few. But thank you,” she said, hoping it would suffice. She suspected that like Wendy, she too was well-versed in turning down incentives from the opposite sex. This was different, though. She wanted it this time.

Before Bill could reply there was a clack of heels and a tut that broke the air between them. Wendy appeared beside them, having cut a hole through the centre of the hall. She didn’t look happy, but then again, her natural expression was never exactly one of joy.

“Bill, when I’m in a conversation with the college Dean the last thing I should be hearing is you telling everyone how you called a suspect a ‘fucking pedophile’ during interrogation.”

A grimace passed over his face, but it was soon replaced by a laugh that had been threatening to break through. He knew Wendy all too well, and he knew enough to know she wasn’t that pissed with him. “Well we convicted him, didn’t we?”

Wendy wasn’t impressed with his response. “You didn’t convict him on pedophilia charges, Bill.”

Bill’s head hung back on his neck, a lowly groan emanating from the depths of his throat. “I’m going for a smoke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks manhunt unabomber for providing me with something to make our OC sound smart x


	3. Chapter 3

V. SA Owen

Thursday evenings were tough. It wasn’t yet Friday, so it would’ve felt nearsighted to welcome in the weekend. Everyone’s motivation hit it’s lowest point on a Thursday, which wasn’t what anyone needed when Bill had discreetly ordered a department-wide research project on violent convictions involving men over the age of twenty-five in Wichita.

Diana had taken the initiative to work late, and had been sprinting between each office like an errand boy just to tie up loose ends between Gregg and Bill before they both left for the night.

Holden had fallen sick. It seemed serious; not because of the way Bill and Wendy had seemed a bit more sympathetic whenever his name was mentioned, or because Diana knew Gunn was involved, but because the next interview that had been lined up was with the infamous Ted Bundy. There was no way Holden would miss an opportunity like that unless he was practically bed-bound.

Greer wasn’t good at hiding her need to know everyone’s business. “I do hope Holden’s okay,” she’d sighed theatrically as Bill passed through their desks that morning. “That poor boy. I wonder whatever’s the matter.”

“Weak immune system,” Bill had muttered over his shoulder. 

It had fallen to Gregg to stand in for Holden in the face of the Bundy interview. It was enough to make Diana wince; she’d heard recordings from the past interviews he’d conducted alongside Wendy, and they did little to make him look like an interrogative star. Bill seemed averse to the idea too, and would rather have Diana pass Gregg a message than call the man himself using the phone on his desk. Maybe she didn’t mind so much. She liked the interaction - with Bill that is.

Diana returned a goodbye as the last intern headed to leave. Once again it would be just her and Bill in the office after-hours, his door slightly ajar, the blinds in his window drawn shut. The familiar smell of smoke hung even stronger in the air, and she took it as a pass to light-up too. She’d never do it around Wendy or the other interns in the office.

She set about looking for her cigarette pack under the stack of files on her desk, but a dry laugh came from the other end of the office. Diana rose her head, strangely wary of the sound.

“Hey, Diana - Ashton’s on the prowl again,” the intern called out, poking their head back through the doorframe.

Her stomach turned. Over the run of the past week the department had developed a new inside joke with Diana at the butt of it.

Special Agent Ashton was a recruiter, his specialist skills lying in persuading teachers and other various professionals to join the Bureau, primarily to work at Quantico for training. Diana thought he may as well have been a car-salesman who’d done the training course. He’d introduced himself to her when she’d been stood outside for a cigarette one afternoon - she couldn’t find peace anywhere. Worse for her, she seemed to have attracted his attention to the extent where he’d started coming downstairs just to talk to her. The bottom line was that no one came down to the basement unless they had to.

Everyone else found the way Ashton was coming on to her hilarious. Some had even joked she should stop leading the poor man on. He was twenty-six, blonde, stocky, and had the face of a nineteen year old. He reminded Diana of the kind of private in a war film that had arrived on a new shipment, one the heroic officer would sigh at and say ‘he wasn’t even old enough to buy himself a beer’ following his eventual, inevitable death.

The intern had left, and Diana was grateful that they hadn’t stayed to watch her give him the cold shoulder. That was the thing with men; you could show them countless signs to tell them you didn’t want them, and they’d still interpret it as the opposite. When you did want them, they were just as clueless.

“Ashton’s coming?”

Diana turned. Bill was stood at the door of his office with a straight face, one hand in his pocket as he used the other to light the cigarette poised between his lips.

“Apparently so,” she grimaced, smoothing down her skirt before she took a seat at her desk. “Just what I need right now.”

“Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

Diana had to stop her jaw from falling open, but she did allow her eyebrows to raise and the corner of her lips to curve upwards. Her expression told him she’d fucking love that, but they both knew reality was far from fantasy.

The door to the office swung open and Diana stiffened. She refused to glance up and instead continued to look over at Bill, but his demeanour changed. He straightened himself out before taking his hand out of his pocket and the cigarette out of his mouth.

“Sir. To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked, watching AD Gunn stride through the row of desks in the centre of the room. Bill was so unbothered by the idea of appeasing his superiors that his sarcasm was often excused, or perhaps even expected.

“Well, I’ve come to congratulate you. Agent Owen - I hear the fundraiser was quite the success,” Gunn declared, stopping in front of her desk. “Do you have a figure?”

Diana smiled down at her lap, hating how informal they were pretending this situation was. She wanted the attention off her as soon as she could, and even contemplated commenting on Bill’s storytelling to shift it over to him. But Wendy’s voice soon became the voice of reason, reminding her that the ‘fucking pedophile’ line was far from suitable.

“We’re set to receive sixty-five thousand from five separate donors, sir.”

“Now that’s quite something.”

So he was pleased with that, at least. Gunn then perched against the desk opposite Diana’s and thankfully turned his attention.

“Bill. How’re you coming along with having Gregg prepared to take Holden’s place for the interview?”

Bill exhaled a small sigh, the lines in his forehead deepening.

“I’d like to talk to Bundy, sir.”

The two men stared at Diana. She wasn’t even sure where that statement had come from, or how she’d found the balls to declare it, but she knew in the pit of her chest that it was the truth. It had been playing on her mind ever since the situation was discussed, and she’d been gearing up to ask Bill but had yet to find the perfect time. Well, now seemed as perfect as any.

“And has this been spoken about?” Gunn wondered, eyebrows arched skeptically.

Bill’s arms were crossed over his chest, his expression stoney. “No.” 

“No sir, and I was going to ask Bill,” Diana insisted, shooting him a look, “but since you ask now…”

Gunn said nothing. Bill exhaled another sigh and rubbed a hand over his jaw as he thought the scenario through in his head. He was going to shoot her down, and she was aware of how good he was at doing that.

“I wouldn’t be against you taking a role in an interview, Diana. But Bundy’s victim pool is very distinct, and physically you’re a close match. If the killer had murdered boys, then I might say yes.”

“Holden interviews killers who’ve murdered men.”

“And that’s because Holden doesn’t look like a fourteen year old boy. All of Bundy’s victims were similar; educated college students with long brown hair that was parted down the middle.”

“I don’t look like a college student, Bill. I don’t dress like one.”

She took a pause and pouted, feeling let down by the response. He was negatively relating her youth to innocence and naivety, but that didn’t mean she was inexperienced. She’d been to visit jails before, been in interrogation rooms before and even had successfully led interviews. She’d taken a step down to come and work in the Behavioural Science unit, but it was this work what ignited the desire in her chest.

“Seriously, Bill. Maybe I can elicit a knee-jerk response, get him to respond by reminding him of the type of women that he preyed upon.”

“We don’t want a knee-jerk response, Diana. Sure, it might be interesting when they flip out and rant at you, but it reveals little to our study.”

“Bundy’s not going to talk to you truthfully if you sit down and ask him the specifics of the murders,” Diana frowned, her response void of any emotion. “The man seems too cunning for that. Sure, take Gregg if you want the same story he’s already told the press a thousand times.”

Gunn had been listening determinedly to their debate, tapping his stubby fingers against his pale cheek. “Take Diana, Bill.”

The pair turned their heads to face Gunn, and then to face one another. Christ, he looked as if he wanted to murder her. But if Ted wanted Diana to go, Diana would go, and Bill knew that.

“I’m sure Gregg won’t mind staying here at the office. Bundy’s a charismatic man, and you never know, he might like you,” Gunn mused, placing his hands in his pockets. He started towards the door, turning his back on the two agents. “Might even have you back again, like Kemper did.”

“‘Cause that worked out so well for Holden,” Bill muttered under his breath. Diana made a mental note to ask him what he meant, but she had a feeling the revelation she was set to interview Bundy would overwhelm her memory.

Gunn reached the door at the far end of the office and turned back around to face them. He looked so small against the doorframe, so docile and content. Diana would put money on him being an absolute raging fucker when it came to discipline. But for now he was on her side, trusting her potential.

“Teach her how you interview your subjects, Bill. Do a spot of role-play.”

With that, he was gone. The door dragged shut behind him and Diana set her elbows on her desk, the palms of her hands cupping either side of her head by her temples. Bill remained where he’d been stood at her side, towering over her. She could feel the tension between them, dissent at the way she’d pulled the rug out from under him. She could stand up to leave and say goodnight, but what good would that do? Bill wouldn’t respect her any more than he did now. 

She glimpsed a look at him from the corner of her eye, barely surprised to find him lighting another cigarette. 

“When did it cross your mind that I fit the profile of a Bundy victim?” she asked, sitting back in her chair. “Because you didn’t just think that up on the spot, did you?”

“No,” Bill conceded, sounding a bit stricken that she’d picked up on it. “I was considering replacements for Holden.”

Diana frowned at that, and also frowned at how he’d decided to walk away from her back towards his office.

“A replacement for Holden?” she called. “But you already had Gregg.”

“I said it right the first time, Diana,” he replied, heading into his office.

He didn’t close the door completely, instead leaving it far enough open so that Diana could see his shadow cast on the floor as he returned to his desk.

VI. SA Tench

“Mr and Mrs Tench. Lovely to finally meet you.” 

“It’s actually Ms Miller. Not Mrs Tench.”

It was the third time that exact exchange had been made in one evening. Following the divorce Nancy had gone back to her maiden name, digging the nails so firmly into the coffin that Bill knew there was no chance of going back.

It wouldn’t have been so difficult if he hadn’t needed to hear it every time they sat down across from a different teacher at their desk. Parent-teacher conferences were the worst, and Nancy knew how much Bill loathed them. That was probably why she’d insisted he come along, just to spite him some more. 

“Oh. I do apologise, Ms Miller,” the teacher replied, somehow managing to sound more sincere than any of the others had. Maybe it was her soft, breezy southern accent that felt easy to trust - Bill would guess the young woman was Texan. What she was doing in Fredericksburg wasn’t so clear. “My name is Ms Williams, and I teach literature and language. So, this semester has been my first with Brian as a student. I’m sure his characterisation by Brian’s other teachers has told you that he’s a quiet boy, polite, well-disciplined, a good listener, and I’d say the same. Children of Brian’s age are looking to be able to read and write with confidence. One of our aims this semester has been to look at the correct use of grammar.”

Ms Williams launched into an explanation of the curriculum and Bill promptly zoned out. He’d never tried hard at school but had still been what you’d regard as a bright child. Curiosity always got the better of him and he’d asked too many questions to be dumb, but he’d struggled to put his knowledge and perspectives of the world into his exams. He was apparently a lost cause by the time he’d told his conservative, modest parents he wanted to pursue a career in solving crime, but not as county police, and not typical detective work. It was always something else, something more than what anyone else he knew could do. Well, he was shipped off with the army before he could even begin to plot out the path that he’d been carried away by now. 

“Brian has great attention to detail.”

The mention of his son’s name shook Bill out of his lifeless daze. Nancy was sat so upright in her chair she looked as if she’d left the coat hanger in the back of her jacket.

“He’s very inquisitive. And it’s maybe not in the way he asks questions, but in the way he interprets things, and then how that influences his decisions and actions.”

A chill settled over Bill’s shoulders. They’d still barely recovered from Brian’s involvement in the incident that drove Nancy to pack up their house and move to the other side of town. Her denial was one of the most painful parts of it all. Bill knew it wouldn’t be doing Brian any good, but there was nothing he could do for him that Nancy couldn’t, or that a self-proclaimed child psychiatrist who was charging forty dollars an hour couldn’t. Bill hoped, anyway.

“I don’t know if his inquisitiveness is a natural trait, or something that’s been encouraged by yourselves, but Brian’s able to pick out things that some of my other students would simply breeze over. When we’re reading texts he focuses on what’s happening between the lines. He questions things.”

Ms Williams had a comparatively positive demeanour against Brian’s other teachers. Bill might’ve wished he’d had a teacher like her at school; he could never imagine her shouting, which probably made her respected enough to control the class without the need to raise her voice. But Bill sensed Ms Williams definitely erred on the side of rebellion against conventional teaching. Her hair was Angela Davis esque, just short enough to be considered professional for the setting. She wore a turtleneck, cropped cardigan and denim skirt on her petite frame, and it furthered the gap in age and attitude between herself and her colleagues.

Naturally, Bill didn’t know many young women - at least, not living ones. Any _victims_ were almost always of that demographic. Meeting Holden’s short-lived girlfriend a year or so ago had probably been the first time he’d spoken to a woman under thirty about anything other than work for a long time. Bill’s mind ran off, and he questioned himself about the way he’d been perceiving Brian’s teacher. If this was Debbie, would he have thought her unorthodox as an elementary teacher? She wore the exact same kinds of clothes, had a different approach to things too. They’d done little thinking about racial bias in their methodology. Gender or sexual bias, either. Jesus, why was work all Bill could think about? 

“Brian might appear disinterested in things, but that’s far from it. And as his parents, I know you know that. He’s reserved, but I don’t think he lacks development at all. He expresses himself in other ways. And of course, while everyone would like their child to be head and shoulders above the rest, it’s about developing their own identity at this age.” 

Bill thought he was hallucinating when he caught Nancy nodding wholeheartedly at Ms Williams. 

“Personally I’m pleased with Brian’s progress, especially when I consider that last year he was struggling. I don’t know if you have any questions, anything you’d like to share?”

Nancy and Ms Williams proceeded to speak about how much she should be reading with Brian. Bill hoped she wouldn’t launch into anything too personal, but Nancy took the opportunity to ask whether Brian got along with his classmates. She must have trusted Ms Williams somewhat more than any of the other teachers, because they’d been in and out of every other classroom as if their lives had depended on it.

“Bill? Is there anything you’d like to know?” Nancy asked, putting him on the spot.

“No,” he lied. He was still clueless about his son - he just couldn’t bring himself to think about it. “Thanks for seeing us, Ms Williams,” he countered, standing up and extending his arm.

They shook hands and exchanged formalities, with Nancy loosening the grip on her purse in order to shake hands with Ms Williams too. They headed to leave, and Bill reached into his inside pocket to find his keys. He must’ve left his badge on him - it caught on his hand and clumsily dropped to the floor, landing closer to Ms Williams than to himself. 

Ms Williams looked hesitant for a moment, but she swiftly dipped down and moved forward to hand it back. But that wasn’t without taking a glance at the leather cover first.

“You work for the FBI, sir?” she asked. “At Quantico?”

Bill nodded. That kind of question was usually followed by something bigger and deeper that he didn’t want to get into, especially not with Nancy beside him tapping her foot. “Yes, in the psychology department,” he answered, hoping that might be enough to turn her away.

“Get out of here,” she exclaimed, eyes widening as she smiled a curious smile. Bill was stumped. “I share my apartment with Diana Owen - I don’t know if you’d know her, but she’s a special agent. Behavioural Science, I’m sure.”

Of course Bill knew Diana. Everyone at Quantico knew Diana. If she wasn’t attracting wolf-whistles in the corridors from the asshole trainees upstairs, she’d become the first point of communication between Behavioural Science and the outside world, as well as the rest of the Behavioural Science unit and Bill’s office.

“Yeah, I work very closely with Diana. This is the strangest thing,” Bill laughed, loosening up for the first time all night. “She mentioned you just the other day. She had some really interesting ideas about how to interpret some letters that we believe are from someone we’re looking for. Using the structure of the language, and, dialect, to narrow down the suspect’s profile, and-”

“Bill.”

Bill and Ms Williams both turned to face Nancy. Her expression said it all. They were leaving, now. 

“Forgive me,” Bill said, retreating.

Ms Williams smiled, lacing her hands together in front of her. “No. Thank you for coming,” she smiled, more for Nancy’s benefit than for Bill’s.

The ride home was as it had always been; quiet, with things going unspoken between them. Except this time Bill was dropping Nancy off at her own place and then heading back to an empty bed, their son with only one parent. The truth was that Bill had fallen out of love with her. He’d probably fallen out of love with her a long time ago. It was inevitable that in a relationship once the sexual attraction had passed you were well and truly fucked, just not in the way you wanted to be. Trying for a baby for so long with no success broke them down, and all the obstacles they’d encountered with Brian had driven them apart.

He wasn’t kidding himself, though. He’d understood what marriage entailed when they’d made their vows, anticipated the sacrifices you had to make for it to work. Love was eventually substituted for dependence. Nancy had been his crutch for so long that he’d had to learn how to walk again.

But Bill had realised that if he’d wanted to save things so badly then he’d have come home from Atlanta, he’d have dropped his work. He’d never go as far as saying it was a blessing in disguise. Never. And he’d tried, God knows he had. It just hadn’t been enough.

Bill pulled up next to the kerb outside Nancy’s place. It was small and plain, but better than where he was living. A dim light glowed in the main window, a sign of a new babysitter Nancy had managed to find.

“Can I say goodnight to Brian?” 

“He’ll be in bed by now,” Nancy responded, facing out of the opposite window. She sucked in a breath of air, ready to deliver something Bill knew he wouldn’t like. “I’ve met someone, Bill.”

And there it was.

“Congratulations, Nance. Let me guess. Guy at your new job. He’s your senior, but not your boss. He thinks you’re good at what you do. He asks about Brian and probably wants to take him to the park to throw a baseball around. He’s told you that people who work at the FBI are pricks and that’s exactly what you want to hear.”

Fuck, he was bitter.

Nancy kept her cool. He hated that he admired that about her, how she’d never rise to the challenge. She knew better - he’d been taking low blows and she was the one moving on.

“I’m going to let him meet Brian on Sunday, and we’re going to the park.” She clicked her tongue and finally turned to look at Bill, her expression a mixture of desolateness, rage, and exhaustion. “I thought I’d tell you before it happened. Out of respect. And also because you don’t need to come pick him up on Friday. I’ll keep him this weekend.” 

Bill could feel his blood curdling. “Fuck Nancy, this is all a bit soon!”

“I’m not discussing this now. I have to get in, for Brian,” she insisted, holding her head high as she shoved open the car door and stepped out.

“I don’t think you should be able to make this fucking decision alone.”

“I am _not_ arguing about this on the street.”

Nancy slammed the door shut and stormed towards the door of the house. All Bill could do was watch, feeling sick to his stomach. He thought he’d already lost everything, but it seemed there was even more to be taken from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short(er) one this time because I'm trying to get the bundy interview as good as possible. they're going to get together soon, I SWEAR. this tension ain't for nothing. at this point it's killing ME ! #sadbilltenchnation amirite
> 
> thank you all so much for continuing to read and comment, it means the world. hope u enjoy x

VII.

“I want you to imagine I’m Bundy.”

Diana shot a look at Bill. Aside from background research, they’d only just begun interview preparation. Neither of them were quite in the mood. With their colleagues having finished up for the day, the office was empty and the lights were dimmed, leaving Diana perched behind her desk and Bill pacing the centre of the room. The hour hand of the clock on the wall had just ticked past eight and they’d both been chain-smoking since the last intern had walked out.

Diana’s throat was feeling a little raw, but she didn’t know if that was from the cigarettes or the sight of Bill with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

“I don’t think I can properly do that, Bill.”

He glanced at her pointedly as he exhaled his previous drag. “Why?”

She laughed, but it wasn’t one of amusement. “I don’t think I can imagine the rage and disgust I’ll feel when I see him.”

Bill nodded to demonstrate he understood, moving to lean against the desk opposite to Diana. He was tired; he’d looked tired for a while, as if he’d been struggling to get a good night’s sleep. Diana supposed she probably looked the same. She had naturally dark undereyes; it was hereditary, and she hated it. If she didn’t wear enough makeup they’d almost look bruised. It made the ‘smile, sweetheart, it might never happen’ comments a lot more common, too.

But that wasn’t just it. Anxiety had begun to stem from the notion of interviewing Bundy and later being judged on her performance by her superiors. The thought of embarrassing Bill was consuming her by the minute, and it wasn’t like her to fret about things like this.

“What image do you have of Bundy in your head?” Bill asked her, tapping ash into an empty plastic cup. “The images of him in court? Well-groomed, in his suit?”

Diana pictured him. The modest but respectable suit. The pointed nose and jaw. The brown waves of hair and the wild, unhinged look in his eyes. She’d never agreed he was attractive like the press made him out to be, but even if what she knew about him was extracted he wouldn’t have been her type.

“Mhm, probably.”

“Well he’s going to be human when you sit across from him,” Bill declared. “Not just a persona. He’ll be in his uniform, and he’ll probably look rough. But you can’t let how unsettled you are show.” 

Diana tilted her head, wondering if his comment about her being unsettled was a result of how he’d noticed a change in her behaviour. He watched everyone closely; that was his job. But she’d be damned if she didn’t think he’d taken more of an interest in her. She needed to mention something else to get away from her spiralling train of thought.

“It’s strange, because you go in there knowing you’re going to be manipulated by them. And they know they’re going to be manipulated too. I still don’t quite know how you entice these things out of them.”

Bill’s eyes shifted up to the ceiling above them, his lips pursing into a thin line. Diana had to force herself not to stare at him, to forget the way the fabric of his shirt became taut against his broad shoulders, to ignore how in control of this very situation he was.

“Have you listened to the Devier tape?”

“Yeah. It cuts out while… well, while I presume Holden does something that I imagine isn’t quite protocol.”

Bill didn’t sneer as Diana suspected he might, instead nodding intently. “We used the murder weapon to provoke a response.”

“You had it in the room?”

“Mhm-hm. A large rock, covered with the victim’s blood. She was around twelve, I think, and a majorette. She wasn’t wearing the uniform when she was assaulted and killed but she had it on her. And Devier had placed a jacket over her face once he’d done it; it was bright yellow. He saw the items in the room, and they made him freeze. Ultimately they’re what got the confession.”

“Couldn’t that be interpreted as-”

“As coercion? Mhm, which is why Holden cut the tape.” Bill paused and sighed, running a large hand over his face. “But you and I both know, Diana, that that kind of thing is what you have to do to keep these people from doing the same again. He was guilty of the rape and murder of a young girl.”

“I wasn’t criticising,” Diana protested. “I’m more in awe of how you managed to keep that quiet.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t. But that’s another story. My point is that you have to one-up these guys. Find their weakness before they find yours.”

“I noticed, that in the Manson interview…” Diana trailed off, catching sight of the look passing over Bill’s face. She’d never seen him wear that expression before; it wasn’t quite shock, or fear. More one of vulnerability, as if she’d touched a nerve. 

“Wendy let you listen to the Manson interview?”

“I asked, and granted, she said it wasn’t the most insightful, but it taught me some things.”

Bill shifted against the desk, hands gripping the wood beside his thighs. “Like what?”

“It sounds like Manson is pointlessly rambling. But all that pointless rambling still managed to make you…”

They shared a look, and Bill almost clenched his eyes shut in denial.

“You don’t ever lose your shit in interviews, Bill.” Diana didn’t know whether or not to continue, sensing Bill already disliked where this conversation was headed. But she was’t going to keep what she was thinking from him. She knew Bill acted as if he was never truly open, and of course, that was fine. She just wanted to understand. “I don’t blame you for how you acted with Manson, but he got to you because he identified a weak spot.”

“And what would that be?”

“Something… personal.” Diana’s eyes wandered away from Bill, unable to hold the contact. She knew she should stop, but she also knew she wasn’t going to. Was it reckless? She wanted to be honest. “I don’t know _what_ exactly, but he asks you if you’re a family man. Similarly with Brudos, he gets a response from you by talking about your family.”

“Anyone would be a little bit fucked off if a psychopath started asking about your family.”

She felt as if she’d been hit in the stomach. “I know, Bill. And I can tell you’re fiercely protective. All I’m saying is you usually do the interrogation so well, the manipulation…”

“And Charlie got the better of me, huh?” he sneered, taking a long drag with a shake of his head.

“It’s just clearly something you were sensitive about, and he knew.”

“_Clearly_?”

She was digging herself a deeper hole. Diana prayed her knack for getting out could serve her well now. “I learned that whatever it is that you harbour animosity over, that’s the thing that can get you. I’m sorry when I say that for you it’s probably your family, Bill, and I hope I’m not out of line in saying that, because there’s _nothing_ wrong with that. And it’s helped me to try and think of what my vulnerability could be.”

Bill didn’t say anything. He’d bowed his head stoically, hands resting in his lap. Diana felt like a bitch, and the ache behind her eyes that she’d had all day had swiftly grown worse.

After some time he looked up and dropped his burned-out cigarette into the cup. Diana’s breath caught in her throat - he’d be well within her reasons to tell her to fuck off, she reckoned.

“At the time of the Manson interview I was confused about quite a few things, Diana. My son, Brian - he’s nine, now - struggles to communicate like other kids do. He’s very quiet. We adopted him when he was three years old.”

Diana already knew this. She still couldn’t believe the chance that her housemate Logan was Brian’s teacher, and that Bill had spoken to her at the parent-teacher conference. She hadn’t pried; Logan had just told Diana the primary information, what Brian was like, what Bill’s ex-wife was like. About her perm, and the way she was overly curt. For some reason Diana would’ve expected Bill to be with someone kind, doting, perhaps even careless. Maybe she was, before their son.

“One day Brian had been playing with some older boys. Nancy-”

He stopped himself and sighed. He looked sad now, his shoulders hunched over his torso more than ever.

“I’m not a psychopath, Bill,” Diana murmured. “And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Diana’s chest tightened at the thought that Bill trusted her a lot more than she had ever expected him to.

“Nancy, my ex-wife… is a realtor. There was a house she was showing. Brian got the keys. And when he was playing with these boys, they had a toddler with them. Two years old. They took him to the house. I don’t exactly know how, but I know it was an accident. An accident, that the toddler died. I used to go to church. I did as a kid, and when I married and we had our own kid, I figured that’s what you do, right? Brian knew the story of the crucifixion. After the child died, they made a cross. Two planks of wood, and they put the body on it. Trying to bring him back to life.”

Diana’s fingers brushed her mouth, her shallow breaths chilling her skin. “Fuck, Bill.”

“All the children had to have counselling. Brian is practically mute in those situations. We were observed, as parents. Weekly visits. I was working, a lot. Nancy struggled.” He suddenly looked like it had hit him all at once. “I struggled too. Every night I questioned if it was my fault. But this is what was going on when I interviewed Manson. Like you said, whatever you have animosity about, they can find it, and use it against you.”

She wasn’t sure what to say next. She sure as hell wasn’t going to make it about herself, or about work. Bill was lonely. Diana knew the feeling; she’d left San Francisco on the back of a long-term relationship after her boyfriend had cheated, and she took the liberty to cheat, too. It hadn’t been her finest moment. But she had an abundance of love to give - only if it was for the right person, and the right people were few and far between.

They were so constricted in their line of work. Studying heartless people who directed their passion towards hurting others took it out of Diana, and it had undoubtedly worn Bill down. When the job was to understand those kinds of people more than anyone else, it was easy to lose sight of how to love and understand the people you wanted to be intimate with. Diana didn’t want to go blind. She loved her work, but she wanted to love someone, too. 

“Are you okay now, Bill?” she asked, her voice barely above a murmur. He’d been watching her, watching her think, and also watching her keep what was going on in her head to herself. One day she hoped she could tell him. She hoped they’d talk about it, and understand each other.

Bill’s shoulders rose and fell, but the action wasn’t quite a shrug. Then, so nonchalantly, he rose to his feet and blinked away the morose look on his face as if the conversation had never happened. “I’m getting there.”

It would be easy enough for Diana to distrust him, but she sensed even if his admission wasn't true, he wanted to be okay. Just knowing that was enough.

She was sat with her lower lip caught between her teeth and her stare aimlessly on the floor when Bill walked over to her. No words were spoken as he circled the desk and her chair, the sounds of his footsteps coming to rest directly behind her. Her body straightened out, taut from the position she'd been in for a while.

“Now,” he broached, placing his hands on the back of Diana's chair,“we were going to revise interview techniques.”


End file.
